


if you love me, let me go.

by ShowtheWorldtheThunder



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Also this is pretty sad I'm sorry, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, So so much angst, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-18
Updated: 2015-05-18
Packaged: 2018-03-31 04:08:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3963808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShowtheWorldtheThunder/pseuds/ShowtheWorldtheThunder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It’s after Jeanae decides she’d be better off without him, in the middle of recording what would become the double-platinum album <em>From Under the Cork Tree</em>, that Pete, already so deep in his depression and anxiety without the added stress of a breakup and an album, decides that he is going to die."</p><p>Pete wants to die. Patrick can't live without him. And this <em>never happened</em>.</p><p>(<em>Heavily based off of the first suicide attempt in Gray. Some details are changed; does not exactly follow the events as depicted in Gray.</em>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	if you love me, let me go.

**time: early december, 2004**

**place: burbank, CA**

It’s after Jeanae decides she’d be better off without him, in the middle of recording what would become the double-platinum album _From Under the Cork Tree_ , that Pete, already so deep in his depression and anxiety without the added stress of a breakup and an album, decides that he is going to die. Not by God’s hand, or a stranger’s hand, but his own. He’s been drowning in his own sorrows for long enough, and decides to be practical; even thinks that his new shrink, some overblown Hollywood doctor that prescribes pills to make up for his lack of genuine expertise, would be proud of him.

He’s alone in his room, thank God, and decides to gather up every pill he can find in his room - soon, he’s got a handful of Xanaxes, Klonopins, and Valiums, and he swallows down every last one, keeping them down with a half-empty water bottle from his nightstand. To keep the world out, he shuts himself up in the bathroom, breaking the mirror with his fist to use up some pent-up energy. Hot, rich blood runs down his arm in streaks, and his knuckles are cut up pretty badly, but he’s too manic to care.

What he does care about, though, is that the blood is flowing pretty steadily, and it doesn’t seem like it’s clotting or showing any signs of stopping anytime soon. His head starts spinning with worry that the pills aren’t letting his blood clot, and in a purely childish manner, he rushes into the shower to keep the blood out of his sight and down the drain, instead.

He’s so focused on the sensation of the bright, red ribbons running from his arm into the drain that he doesn’t notice it at first, but he’s crying now, and his head’s going numb, like an endless barrage of paparazzi camera flashes that never relents. He rubs his eyes, both from the memory of blocking out white flashbulbs and to wipe his tears, and the streaming red from his arm smears across his face. He turns on the water then, to wash the blood from his face, and watches the blood drip down from his knuckles and onto his clothes, staining them.

It’s when he’s deep into his own numbed-out, blood-red world that he hears Patrick knocking at the door, likely having heard the mirror shatter. Thankfully, though, the door was still locked, keeping him out.

“Pete? Pete, what’s wrong? What’s going on in there?” He calls, but Pete doesn’t answer.

_Just let me go, Patrick, just leave, please._

A few moments pass before Patrick speaks again, his voice louder and a little more desperate: “Pete, let me in, please,” He begs, but again, Pete ignores him, feeling the water run over his head and stream down his back.

_You don’t want me around, anyway. Nobody does. Please, let me go._

A few minutes pass...or maybe an hour? He couldn’t tell, but soon, he hears something slamming against the door, over and over and over, until it finally busts open to reveal Patrick, rubbing his substitute-battering-ram of a right shoulder and tearing up immediately upon the sight of blood and glass all over the bathroom.

“ _Pete_ ,” He whimpers, and Pete’s heart would surely break at the sound, if he could feel anything.

Patrick rushes over and shuts off the water, then hands Pete a towel hanging on the rack next to him. It’s then that Pete notices he’s shivering, which is definitely not right, because at the same time, his head feels like it’s on fire.

“Is there smoke coming out of my ears?” He jokes with a bit of a slurred tone, but Patrick doesn’t laugh; he bites his lip with worry and helps Pete out of the tub and into his bed.

Patrick leaves him there a second to get some gauze from the cabinet-- _the one he broke with his fist, right, that’s why he’s bleeding_ \--and wraps it tightly around Pete’s hand to try and suppress the bleeding. Pete looks down numbly, watching the water pool around his sneakers as Patrick holds him and tries to help as best he can.

“Pete, I called 911, someone’s gonna be here soon, you’ll be okay, I promise,” He rambles, though it comes out muffled underneath the shrill ringing now dominating Pete’s eardrums.

Even though he’s in Patrick’s arms, it feels like his best friend is getting farther and farther away, like Pete’s there, but not _really_ there, and he can feel himself drifting, floating, leaving. It’s then that he realizes he just wants to be in Patrick’s arms, cuddling him, not far away as his best friend sobs over his ragdoll-like figure, but the cocktail of anxiety meds prevents him from reacting to this epiphany. He’s struggling, fighting like hell to get back to Patrick, who’s drifting farther and farther away, and all he can hear is Patrick’s desperate cries, begging and pleading him to stay with him, just a little bit longer, until the paramedics can save him, _please_ , and Pete can’t do a goddamned thing about it. Finally, the blackness swallows everything, including Patrick, and suddenly, Pete can see his entire room, as if he’s a spectator of a private moment. Patrick’s eyes are raw and red, his cheeks soaked with tears, and he’s shaking Pete, sobbing and begging him, pleading desperately for him to come back the second he realizes that the light has left his eyes.

“No no no no _no, please,_ Pete _, I need you here,_ I can’t do this without you _, please, you can’t be fucking dead_ ,” He sobs, but Pete’s gone now, off to purgatory or heaven or hell or wherever the fuck you go after you die.

Pete’s about to look away, unable to stand the sight of his best friend,  _fuck, who is he kidding,_ his _crush_ so broken and upset, fuck, he fucked up so badly, now he can’t even fucking go back, when suddenly, paramedics come rushing into the room.

“ _Please_ ,” Patrick begs them, “ _He’s dead, and I can’t fucking do this without him, please bring him back, I need him, please,_ ” and the EMTs are asking him to step aside so that they can help, but Patrick’s grip on his dead friend tightens.

“ _No, no, I’m not letting him go, PLEASE,_ ” He sobs, but someone finally rips him away from Pete, and he can see an EMT starting up a defibrillator.

 _Pete’s_ the one begging now, fuck, he isn’t even _religious_ , but he’s praying to _God_ that they’ll save him, that he can come back and just see Patrick _smile_ again, _please_ , but before he can see his own fate, his line of sight is suddenly directed away from the scene, now toward a tunnel of sorts, leading in the opposite direction.

 _I can’t leave now, I can’t go to heaven or hell or where the fuck ever, I want to be with Patrick_ , He thinks desperately, but the tunnel is tugging him away, toward a light that burns too brightly, even brighter than a paparazzi flashbulb, and Pete’s trying his damnedest to fight the otherworldly force’s pull, to no avail.

He reaches the light, no matter how much he tries to fight it, and he’s sure that he’s sobbing, when he realizes that...he’s...at _peace_. He feels... _nothing_. All of his stresses, his worries, his troubles, are gone, and for a moment, Pete thinks that he could get used to it. He doesn’t get used to it, though, because while he does feel peace, he’s entirely, utterly alone, which causes him to feel something - a chill. An enveloping coldness that washes over him, as he realizes that his friends, his family, his _Patrick_ are all gone, and he’ll never see them again.

“ _Pete...Pete, please,_ ”

God, Pete can hear his voice perfectly, like he’s right next to him. He wishes so desperately to be with his best friend again, to hold him again, to write with him again...hell, he’d even _fight_ with him, if it meant that he’d never see that broken look on his face again.

“ _Pete, oh my god, please,_ ”

Now, Pete’s just being taunted, he’s sure of it, because Patrick’s voice is louder, closer, like he’s so near yet so far away, and he can’t do a goddamn thing about it. He shuts his eyes at the memory, tries to hold onto it, promises himself that if he can’t be with Patrick ever again, he’ll be damn sure that he never forgets his voice.

He doesn’t have to.

“Pete, _please!_ ” He hears again, and the next sound he hears is a loud _THUNK!_ before his eyes open slowly, ready to curse whatever God is just totally _fucking_ with him, trying to make his last memories of Patrick’s voice _painful_ , when he realizes that, fuck, he’s back in his room, he can see two white pads on his inked chest, and--he’s _alive_. He’s fucking _ALIVE_.

“ _PETE!_ ” is the next sound he hears, and thank God, it’s finally _happy_. He sits himself up as best he can, and Patrick is on him in an instant, hugging him desperately, and both of them are sobbing as the EMT smiles and removes the pads from Pete’s chest as best he can without interrupting their embrace.

“P-Pete, you were fucking dead, I-- _Pete,_ ” Patrick sobs, and Pete hugs him so tightly, he’s sure he’s restricting his airways, or something. But he’s sure Patrick doesn’t care. He’s _here_. He’s _alive_. He’s _okay_. It’s more than either of them could ever ask for.

The paramedics insist Pete should come to the hospital, where he can rest, but Patrick’s arms around him are like a vice, and they can tell he’s not going to relent his grip anytime soon. They tell Patrick to call again if anything else happens, but they soon pack up their things and let the two friends be.

Pete and Patrick embrace for the longest time, hours, possibly, just holding each other, just assuring each other that they’re together, that they’re okay.

“ _I’m sorry,_ ” Pete says finally, breaking the silence, and Patrick’s finger is at his lips, shushing him immediately.

“Don’t,” He begs, “ _please_ don’t. Just, please. Can this--can this be between us? I don’t want anyone else to know, I--I don’t want to ever think about losing you ever again.”

Pete knows he can feel again, because his heart certainly splinters from the look Patrick gives him.

“Never, Patrick. Never. Our secret, I promise.”

“ _Please,_ ” Patrick sobs, and Pete’s the one shushing him, now.

“I promise. This never happened. Nobody will ever know.”

“ _Thank you,_ ” Patrick gasps, and Pete cuddles him closer, if possible.

They continue to hug in silence again, and they are together, they are alive, they are _okay_.

And this _never happened_.

**Author's Note:**

> So, I wrote this for an RP based off of a headcanon I had, after reading Gray, that, maybe, just maybe, Pete really did die that day, but the paramedics brought him back - a Nikki Sixx type of headcanon, of sorts - and Pete and Patrick just never wanted to tell anyone. I feel like the whole scene in the book was a lot less descriptive about how it emotionally effected everyone than it could've been, which led me to fill in some of the cracks. Again, though, this is a headcanon, and probably completely untrue. Thank you for reading, regardless!


End file.
